Part 2 to this
Hybrid!141 x new hybrid!reader
cw: Ghost being soft, hospital setting, fluff
You glared at the wall across from your hospital bed, burning holes into the boring, off-white paint as if it’d personally offended you. The constant chiming of the heart monitor was beginning to piss you off, your finger twitching every time it dinged. Tempted as you were to rip it off, you knew that’d only cause a huge fuss and land you right back at square one.
One look and anyone would be able to tell that you were irritated. It was in the way your brow furrowed deeper by the minute, the way you clenched and unclenched the rough material of the blanket laid over your lap. Oh, and the way your new goddamn wings twitched periodically and made you grit your teeth, of course.
They just wouldn’t sit still. Not to mention the flare of feathers protruding from your lower back that was pinned under your ass, forcing you to readjust your position periodically to ease the ache.
Overall, you’d rate your comfort levels at a solid 1.5 out of 10. maybe 2, if you were feeling generous.
You tried to recall how you ended up here, but your memory was disturbingly fuzzy. Something about a mission, no idea if it went well or failed. A prick in your leg, distant chatter, and then you felt like you were dying. And now, you were in a hospital, with an IV catheter in your arm, and that gods forsaken heart monitor chirping like an angry squirrel.
It hadn’t been long since you’d woken up, an hour or so. Upon noticing that your eyes were open and pinned on her, your nurse said she’d inform your CO (after nearly jumping out of her skin), and scurried off before you could argue otherwise.
Speaking of CO – the door to your room opened, unceremonious, and John Price walked in, looking grim. So, about how he normally looked, which both eased you and further worried you.
Beep beep beep. Beep. Beep.
Good to know that you could rely on the good ol’ monitor to reveal how you were actually feeling. Narc.
He sat down on the chair at your bedside and sighed like it’d make him rich. “Good to see you’re awake, sergeant.”
You rasped, “You look like you haven’t slept in years.” You cringed at how rough your voice sounded and how dry your throat was, a damn desert in your mouth.
He held out a small, paper cup full of ice water, and you grabbed it with a grateful chirrup. Ignoring whatever sound you just made in favor of the liquid gold, you guzzled it down, barely restraining a moan at the relief it brought. Once the water was drained, you turned to suckling on the ice cubes, resisting the urge to crunch into them.
“Wha’s the newsh, Cap’ain?” You slurred around an ice cube. “How ‘ucked am I?”
He sighed again, rubbing a hand across his face and stroking his beard in contemplation. “You’ve given me a lot of new paperwork to fill out, love.” You frowned in confusion. Seeing this, he continued, “I’ve gotta relabel you as a hybrid, what kind of hybrid you are, sign off on physical exams”– you groaned –”fill out documents on why your status seemingly changed out of nowhere, not to mention filling out the reports of our mission, explaining how and why shit went sideways. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.”
Teasingly, and still a wee bit high off pain meds, you grinned lopsidedly at him. “Jush’ tryna put you outta yer mishery, Cap.”
That earned you a tired chuckle. “Ya scared me, kid,” he admitted. “Getting all fucked up in the field like that. Nearly lost ya, your heart was close to giving out.”
Said heart sank to your ass. You chewed through the rest of your ice cube. “Sorry.”
Price shook his head. “Not your fault. It’s that rat bastard’s,” he hissed out, the fur on his rounded ears bristling.
Chewing the inside of your cheek, you were cautious to ask. “What’s the, uh… what’s the situation with that?”
“We don’t know much,” he said remorsefully. “Mad doc’s been silent. Kate’s been looking into it day and night, digging up whatever she can. All we know is that the serum you got injected with contained stem cells and some sort of DNA.”
“DNA?” You croaked, your senses hackling. “Someone else’s?”
He shook his head. “Can’t be certain, but so far, it seems like no. For all we know, all the serum had done was draw out innate attributes you already had, like waking up dormant genetics.”
Subconsciously, you shifted, grimacing at the feeling of the elbow joint of your left wing popping. Fuck, that’d take some getting used to. You tried to recall the biology lessons you’d taken when you were ten, but you slept through most of the classes. Your pediatrician did say that you were completely human when you had testing done on you, though. You remembered that clearly.
Well, evidently, something got fucked up along the way.
A knocking on the door prompted you and Price to turn towards it, watching as a doctor peeked her head in with a polite smile. She stepped inside, the door shutting quietly behind her, and approached you. On the way, she nabbed the clipboard hanging on the foot of your bed.
“Glad you’re awake. I’m Dr. Murray, I’ve been taking care of you. I just have a few questions for you, that alright?”
Ugh. Questions. “If it can’t be avoided.”
She hummed and drew out a pen from one of her many pockets. “Just some standard stuff. Name and date of birth?” Once those were confirmed, she got started on the juicy stuff. “Alright. Any known family history of delayed development?"
“Nope,” you popped the p. “My granddad was underdeveloped, but he was born a hybrid.”
Dr. Murray nodded. “And are any of your family members hybrids?”
You sighed, laying your head back against the thin, rather shite pillow. “Mum’s a Eurasian jay. Sister’s a blue jay.”
“Corvids run in the family, then?”
“E-yup,” you paused, pressing your lips together, a flash of nervousness casting over your features. In a softer voice, you asked, “What am I?”
The doctor glanced at your chart. “Magpie.”
The breath you didn’t know you were holding rushed out through your nose. Magpie. You were a magpie hybrid. Your heart clenched, or stuttered, or something.
“Your father?” She asked harmlessly.
“Dead to me,” you answered in reflex.
She made a face and cleared her throat awkwardly. “I meant your genetics.”
“Oh,” you blinked. “Human.”
The doctor scribbled something down on your chart, presumably that information. “Your bloodwork came back normal. A sudden spike in cortisol, but nothing abnormal for a hybrid, nor is it high enough to worry about. What you went through was traumatic, so it’s not unexpected.”
Boy, was that an understatement.
Price shifted to the edge of his chair. “How’s her heart?” He asked. Were he a fraction of a lesser man, you’re sure his voice would have trembled.
It warmed your chest to know he cared so much about little ol’ you.
She reassured him with a bright smile. “Her heart is perfectly fine. The sudden flood of new hormones put too much pressure on it, but now that they’ve calmed down, it’s not a concern anymore.”
His shoulders slouched minutely, and you giggled to yourself.
Then came a different form of annoying questions. “Sit up for me?” She requested. “Gonna have you turn sideways on the bed – yes, like that, good. Scoot back a bit for me.”
Following her instructions, you squirmed around (with great difficulty) until your wings and tail were hanging off the edge of the bed. Their sheer weight made you cling to the sheets desperately, praying you didn’t fall backwards into her and embarrass yourself in front of both her and your CO.
A chill shot up your back the moment her cool fingers grazed your bare skin through your loose hospital gown, your spine straightening so quickly that it cracked. She apologized, but didn’t pull away, massaging muscles both old and entirely new.
“Any pain here?” She prodded.
You grunted through grit teeth. “No.”
“Good,” she confirmed, repeating the process in various locations. When her fingers brushed through the downy plumage at the base of your wings, though, you squawked indignantly and jerked away, earning yourself a snort from John. Dr. Murray merely pulled away, informing you that everything seemed fine on the physical end of the spectrum – for now. Whatever the fuck that meant.
“Could you spread your wings for me?”
You frowned, wondering to yourself just how the hell you were meant to do that. Still, you gave it your best shot.
It took all your concentration. You focused on them – tried to, anyway – and they twitched, shifted, and creaked open. It was difficult to move them both at the same time, resulting in you spreading one about halfway, the other a bit more, back and forth until they were finally completely open. And drooping. So fucking heavy.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until she let you know you could relax, at which point they dropped like bags of rocks, feathers bending against the linoleum floor, and nearly took you off the bed with them. She helped keep you upright (to your chagrin), and aided you in scooting back into position so you could lean back on the mattress again.
She chatted with you and John about your condition, but most of what she said flew over your head. What didn’t go one ear and out the other was her desire to send you to physical therapy to help you adjust to your newfound… blessing.
You had plenty of hours to stew on that information after she and John left, leaving you to grumble to yourself in your room. In those hours, you kept alternating what position you were in, trying to find something comfortable. Laying on your back compressed your tail. On your side, and you didn’t know how to place your wings (or control them into place, for that matter). On your stomach, and your wings dropped uncomfortably off the sides of the bed.
Eventually, you gave up, dragging the sheets and pillow onto the floor so you could lay on your belly without worrying about the muscles in your wings getting pulled, not caring for what someone would think if they stumbled across you.
Which is exactly what Ghost did when it was his turn to visit, close to evening. The door opened and shut near silently, but you made no motion to get up and greet your guest.
He crouched down by your head, the toes of his boots in your line of sight, but little else.
“Comfortable, sergeant?” He inquired.
“Go fuck yourself,” came your muffled response, not caring that he was your superior. You deserved to go off.
He chuckled fondly, and dropped down to sit cross-legged at your side. “You look like shit.”
You grunted. “I feel like shit.”
Uncharacteristically, you felt him begin to pet over your head and hair, and you visibly melted further into your pillow.
“Your feathers are stunning, love,” he expressed, appreciation evident in his tone.
“They itch,” you complained in return, “and the wings are heavy.”
His hand moved your shoulder, squeezing lightly. You looked up to find Simon peering down at you, something like sympathy and understanding swimming in his amber eyes.
“We’ll help you with tha’,” his rumbled, voice low. “It’ll get easier as the muscles grow.”
You frowned, tail ruffling. You tried to forcefully stop the motion, but that only seemed to encourage it further, prompting him to smirk under his mask. “Is this how you feel all the time?”
The owl hybrid shook his head. “As a kid, during growth spurts, yes, but no’ anymore. Your body will adjust.”
“I feel like I’ll fall over anytime I get up to pee,” you grouched. “It’s like I’m dizzy without being dizzy. And that makes me dizzy.”
“You’ll have it easier than men when you get used to it,” he tried to reassure you. “Your cen’er of gravity is naturally lower, making it easier for you to maintain balance.”
Pouting, you gave him big, wet, puppy-dog eyes. “You’ll help me?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “‘Course.”
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